Gloves
by gopippingo
Summary: District 2's tributes had a life before the games, too.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is a Cato/Clove fanfic, kind of how I thought they could meet. Not sure if it's a oneshot or if I'll add on to it later. Enjoy!**

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"Woodward, why is it that you're fourteen and you can't properly throw a spear?" The trainer's angry voice screamed in my ear. Today was a Landmark testing day, so the trainers could make sure all of us were keeping up and meeting the standards.

Spears were not my strong suit. Some said that it was ridiculous, because throwing a spear is like throwing a really big knife, but the people that say that are morons. Personally, I thought I was bad with spears _because_ of knives. I was so used to throwing a smallish object that a long, lanky one felt awkward in my hands.

Aaron, the trainer, was blowing up because I wasn't hitting center. A fourteen year old female should be hitting dead center every time, Landmark rules say. My spear tips were landing anywhere from a quarter inch to three inches off of center. But I dutifully tried to ignore him because trainers were not to spoken to directly unless you were asked a direct question. And I had a feeling that that question was rhetorical.

He continues to yell and it's all I can do not to scream back. How am I supposed to focus, anyway, with him shouting in my face? I tighten my grip on the shaft of the next spear, trying to feel the comfortable familiarity that I get when I hold a knife. It doesn't come. I throw it anyway, knowing that my stance is wrong, knowing that it didn't fly straight, but it's so frustrating that I don't even care.

"Woodward, what's wrong with you? You can't even hit the center of the _freaking-_" He's silenced by my fist connecting with his face. All at once, the noises in the training room die. I'm standing there not two feet from Aaron Marks, the most renowned trainer in the entire district, who I just punched in the face. It wasn't a good punch, not even close to hurting him. I didn't try for power. I just swung. If anything, he should be even angrier that I didn't at least break something.

He looks at me for a long moment. Nobody, to my knowledge, has ever talked back to a trainer, much less attacked them. I stand there with shallow breaths, cursing my impulsiveness, but I don't break eye contact. The last thing I needed was to show weakness. The trainees around have all stopped what they were doing.

His hand shoots out and slaps me hard across the cheek. It was controlled, crisp, like everything else in the training center. My cheek is on fire and I want to put a hand to it, but I just stand there staring. He glares at me for a moment more before glancing at the clock. 7:05. Twenty five minutes before we end training every day. He briefly makes eye contact with me before raising his voice to the now-silent room.

"Training is over for today. Go home. I expect you all back here at six AM tomorrow." He turns and walks to the back door that leads to the trainers' quarters. The other trainers follow, shooting questioning glances at each other. The kids in the training center, however, mutter uncomfortably to one another, before we slowly make our way to the locker rooms. No one meets my eye. Never has training ended early before. We're not even allowed to look at the clock or the locker room doors before the light panels on either side of the room light, signaling the end of practice. Looking at the clock implies that you want practice to end. And if you want to leave training, then you shouldn't be here.

My eyes sting as I walk to the locker rooms. _What have I done?_ It was bad enough that I did poorly on the Landmark tests. It was bad enough that Aaron was yelling at me in front of the entire training center. Those, I would have gotten over. And then I punched him. I don't know what I was thinking. Actually, I don't think I _was_ thinking. But I punched him. Then he slaps me, and ends training early. And to top it all off, my punch was weak. I stared ahead as I entered the changing rooms, passing all the other girls still whispering and went straight to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I sit on the cold metal toilet seat and let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Breathe in, breathe out. There was no crying at the training center. My breath hitched a couple times, and my chest was drawn tight, but I stayed mute and the tears stayed in my eyes.

When I'm confident the last girl has left for home, I unlatch the door and poke my head out. There's only one little girl, a new recruit, who can't be older than eleven or twelve. She looks at me, a question on her lips, but I hiss at her and she runs out. The last thing I needed to deal with was a little baby who just came from pre-training. They were softies there, didn't thicken the little kids' skins. At my father's command I entered training at nine and didn't stand for any crap from the older kids. If someone had glared or hissed at me, they would've been on the floor with a knife in their shoulder.

But I'm feeling anything but strong as I change from the tight, elastic training uniform of my section into my day clothes. If I get kicked out of training… I don't want to imagine what would happen. What my parents would say. What my father would do to me. Training has been, and is, my whole life. I get up at five each morning, get ready, and am at the training center by six. Training students get abbreviated school days, so I train until nine-thirty before I report for classes at the school. When school is over at two-thirty, the other training students and I head straight to the training center and stay there for the rest of the night. I don't even know what the other kids in District 2 do all day, once school is over. I don't know what you _could_ do. Mine? Even though there are only about 100 kids in training at a time—a miniscule portion of the children of this district—I rarely talk to any non-training kids. We didn't have anything in common, and I get frustrated with them easily. I _could not_ get booted from training. It wasn't an option. Yet the trainers had a perfectly legitimate reason for cutting me from the program. No questions would be asked.

I shoulder my bag and walk from the locker rooms, into the deserted receiving area and out into the bitter cold night. It's midwinter, and the sky is already dark as I step from the training center awash with white light. My resolve breaks as soon as I'm no longer in training. A tear finally slips down my cheek, and then another, and then there's nothing stopping me from full-out crying. My face is hot and flushed, my chest heaving with sobs. I just had to ruin it. One lapse of self-control, and everything could be over now. I smack into something hard. A tree.

"Whoa, having trouble there?" I turn my head to the side, and I see a figure in the shadows. I tense a little, but the tone was light and teasing. The person moves forward, and I can see it's a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He takes another step towards me.

"Don't come closer," I say, trying to sound menacing, but it just sounds pathetic when I choke it out. "I'm trained." Even in my emotional state I can tell that being alone in the dark with a teenage boy isn't necessarily the best thing.

"Oh, really?" he asks, smiling a bit. "I haven't noticed you there every day for seven years."

Damn. I choke out another sob and turn away from him, hoping he won't see my face and just leave. After all this, an upper section boy telling everyone about my little tantrum would kill what little reputation I had left. I feel a little twinge of fear deep inside me. I know that some of the older boys at training wouldn't hesitate to… take advantage of this situation. They're strong, and they have dark minds.

I try to suppress a sob again, but I know he hears it. He comes even closer.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks, voice surprisingly tender. I don't think he realized before that I was crying. I put my back to him. I need to leave.

I can see from the corner of my eye that he's stepping forward yet again, so I whip around and lash out with my right arm.

"Don't come near me!" I yell, but his hand flicks up and catches my wrist in the air before it can touch him. A look of recognition flashes in his eyes when he sees my face.

"You're Clove, right?" he questions, smiling a little and lowering his arm, but still keeping his hand locked around my wrist. I look at his face as well and see that he's a boy I have seen in training often. He's somewhat of a prodigy, in the highest section when he's just turned seventeen, but I know they're not letting him volunteer this year. He doesn't look malicious; he doesn't look like he'll hurt me. I relax just the tiniest bit.

"How do you know me?" I've seen him practice at the center, but I've never trained with or spoken to him. Unlike him, I'm not pointed out for my skills to demonstrate. I'm the most talented female knife thrower, but there are several males with better skills that the trainers use for instructional purposes.

The boy smiles again. His name is Cato. A name that is known to all in the training center and many in the district. I hear the trainers talk about him, about how skilled a fighter he is, how there's no doubt about it that he'll return home a victor. The teachers speak of his intellect, of how smart the boy is. What a shame it is that he's in training, they say. He could have a successful career in any profession he wants.

"I heard you got in a little fight with Aaron today." He doesn't say it accusingly, just states it. Even in that placid tone, the words just remind me of every crappy thing that's happened to me today. They unlock a whole new wave of emotion, and I can feel my lip quiver for a second before I burst into tears again. What's wrong with you, Clove? I hardly ever cry. Not ever at training, and certainly not ever in front of my parents. So that doesn't leave any time for it.

He lets go of my wrist when I pull away, looking more surprised than anything. I don't think he intended for his words to provoke that reaction. I crouch down, covering my face with my hands, leaning my right side against the tree.

"Just go away!" I cry at him, but even to my ears it's hardly coherent. I need to be alone. I need to get it together so that I can go home and go to sleep and hope against hope that everything is somehow resolved.

Instead of leaving me there, as I had wanted, he kneels next to me. Who is this boy? Why is he concerning himself with my problems? He's bent over near me, his face inches from mine. His eyes are questioning. Training girls don't often break down crying. I feel a hand on my back, light against my jacket.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, but I don't answer. _Stop crying_, I tell myself, _Don't you dare cry_. I can't blubber all over this guy. I drag the back of my hand across my eyes and turn and look at the boy. At Cato.

He's still looking straight at me, with unwavering piercing blue eyes. I can see why all the girls at training whisper about him sometimes, in the changing room. He's good looking. I feel a little uncomfortable with the way that his gaze is held on mine, so close to me.

"Just a shitty day," I whisper hoarsely, and his lips tug into a smile. I sniffle, and wipe my eyes again. He's still got that one hand on my back, which I'm oddly aware of.

I'm slightly embarrassed when he helps me to stand, although I don't reject his assistance. I stand there, not really knowing what to do next, when he suddenly touches my arm and turns me towards him.

"Listen, Clove… don't worry about the whole Aaron thing. Or the Landmarks." He knows about that, too? My eyes sting and I turn to look away, but his hand comes up and lightly cups my cheek, making me look at him. His other hand is on my shoulder, and he very deliberately looks at me as he speaks.

"Clove. It's going to be fine. When I was fourteen, one of the upper section boys got fed up and hit the head trainer at that time. His name was Lycus. And that boy punched him a lot harder and did a whole lot more damage to him than you did. The boy got reprimanded, but nothing more than that. He continued training, even got to go in the Games when he was eighteen."

I purse my lips, wanting to believe Cato but not ready to forget my worries.

"But the Landmark…" I whisper, casting my eyes to the ground. His hands are still on my face and shoulder, his skin hot against mine. He laughs and squeezes my shoulder.

"Come one, Clove. I couldn't pass any of my Landmarks my whole first two years. Especially hand-to-hand. Man, was I tiny." At this I can't help but smile a tiny bit, trying and failing to imagine this huge, muscular, six-foot-something teenager as a scrawny little boy.

When I smile, his grin cracks wider across his face. He takes his hands off of me and puts them in his pockets. My skin tingles where his hands were, which is strange. The tingling on my cheek starts to hurt, though, and I realize that Cato's hand was where Aaron had slapped me only ten minutes ago. I wince, and put a hand to my cheek. Cato's eyebrows furrow.

"Are you hurt?"

"Um, no, not really. It's just—Aaron smacked me after the… incident." Why couldn't I seem to speak correctly? I felt oddly small and awkward around Cato.

He nods, looking a little sympathetic but not all that surprised. It's not uncommon for trainers to discipline their students. I don't know why it hurts right now, since getting slapped is nothing compared to the injuries we sustain at training on a daily basis. Every day there are new cuts, bruises, even broken bones and pulled muscles. I'm used to the pain.

Cato turns away, looking around, and walks a little ways away from me to the side of the road. There's still some snow on the ground from the storm a few days ago. Cato pulls a glove out of his coat pocket and slips it on his hand before scooping up a handful of some still-fresh snow. He holds it up as he walks back towards me.

"Cato, it's just a-" I protest, but he holds the snow to my cheek, where the angry red lines of Aaron's hand still show. His other hand is on the back of my head, steadying me as he gently presses the makeshift ice pack to my face. Once again, he's so close to me that I can feel the faint heat that his breath gives on my forehead. My heart beats faster than it should considering I've been just standing for quite a while. There's a strange twisty feeling in my gut and under my ribcage.

"You don't want any marks to show," Cato whispers, so quiet that I almost didn't know he was speaking. "Tomorrow, when you walk in, you hold your head high. Alright?" I don't speak, just nod. My eyes are transfixed on his face.

Cato smiles, such an easy, contagious grin that I wonder what someone like him is doing in training. Training boys don't smile like that. They don't help younger girls on the road and make them feel better. I smile too, without even knowing why.

"And if anyone messes with you, we'll both kick their asses, okay?"

I laugh, and so does he.

"Here," Cato says, and fishes around in his pockets before pulling out his other glove. He hands it to me. "So you can hold the ice without getting frostbite. No, don't be polite, take it," he says after I try to refuse. The glove is huge over my little hands. I feel as though I could properly fit three of my fingers in one of the slots. The material is thick enough that I don't feel the chill of the ice, so I guess that's what really matters. I take the scoop of snow from his hands and hold it in his place, and he steps back.

There's a silence as we both stand there looking at each other.

"Um, I should be getting home soon." I finally say, realizing that it's been a while since I got out from training.

Cato nods and smiles again. A peculiar smile that makes it seem like he knows something I don't.

"Thanks for everything," I say, looking a little embarrassedly down. I don't like other people seeing me act weak. Somehow, though, with Cato, I didn't minds as much as I normally do.

"Sure thing." He's still smiling when I nod, turn around, and begin the familiar walk down the street from the training center. As I walk in the dark, I have to fight the urge to turn around and look behind me to see if Cato's still there. I'm smiling faintly as I walk, but from what I'm not quite sure. I'd been crying so recently that there are still tears drying on my face.

When I get home, I apologize for being late. It's not too far past when I usually get home since we got out of training early. I listen as my mother berates me for my tardiness and then quickly excuse myself to my room. I sit on the bed for a while, thinking. My eyes eventually begin to feel heavy, so I wash up in the bathroom and get ready for bed.

As I change from my day clothes into my pajamas, I notice Cato's glove still on my bedside table. It's slightly damp, the snow having already melted. I look at it and involuntarily smile a little before I climb into bed and turn the lights off.

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**Thoughts, questions, comments, and ideas appreciated! Keep as oneshot, or continue more chapters? Ideas for other fics welcome as well!**


	2. Chapter 2

The next day when I walk into practice, I deliberately avoid meeting anybody's eye. I itch to look and see if Cato's there, which I know is silly since of _course_ Cato will be here. You didn't miss practice unless you were ill, and even then you had to do strategy and theory in the classroom. I walk to the locker rooms and change quickly and quietly, knowing full well that the purple bruise on my cheek is fully visible. Aaron slapped hard and it doesn't take much for a bruise to show on my pale, milky skin. I don't wince when my shirt snags around the bruise as I pull it off over my head. All of the weakness from last night is gone. It _has_ to be gone.

I'm one of the first girls out into the training room, a huge, gray-walled room where we do almost all of our physical training. There's everything from a racing track to climbing walls and structures, agility courses to weight lifting equipment. Like every day, we have fifteen or so minutes to stretch and warm up before announcements. I lightly stretch out my hamstrings and calves, then jog a couple of laps on the track. Although I'm not naturally very strong or mighty, I have a natural flexibility and speediness. It's not what I'd have asked for, but it's better to work with than what some have.

"Announcements!" Aaron calls from the center of the training room, where he and the other trainers stand. We all gather in front of them, waiting quietly for whatever was to be said. There was rarely anything of importance to be said, but it was a formality that the trainers insisted we follow. Confident no one is watching me, I scan the crowd of teens for Cato's face. I find him quickly, towards the middle of the pack with all of his upper-level friends. Unlike me, Cato is close friends with a lot of his fellow trainees. They stand in a clump, a horde of huge, muscular boys. Cato doesn't glance in my direction.

I bounce on the balls of my feet and turn my head back to the trainers when Aaron starts to talk again.

"As you all know, Castor will be completing his Victory Tour the week after next. When the celebrations are held," Aaron looks bitter as he says this, "we will have to suspend training for several days." The trainers are angry whenever training is cancelled, no matter how huge the event is. Even on the days of the reaping, when afternoon practice cannot be held (we still have morning training), the trainers are furious. As angry as they are right now, they're also proud because District 2 had another victor this year. Unlike last year, when that sniveling thing from District 7 won it all.

The trainers talk a little about what courses are set up for today, who's teaching what, and dismiss us. There are three types of training: free, assigned, and section. During free training, we can pretty much do whatever we want, as long as it's actual training. We can go to whatever station we want to work on. For assigned, the trainers tell us which ones to go to. It's usually the stations we need to work on or the ones that we don't go to often. Section training is where we work on the skills that are required for our section. Almost like prep for the Landmarks.

Aaron dismisses us for assigned training, and walks to the knives station, where he's staying today. I breathe a sigh of relief. I spend too much time at the knives station, anyway, so there's no way they'll assign me there.

I duck between the crowds of people to get to the postings board, where our assignments are for today. I roll my eyes when I see that I'm at the spears station. The trainers probably think it's funny.

At spears, I see that most of the seven other people assigned to the station are younger. It's always hard for the kids straight from pre-training to get the hang of spear-throwing. They're so little and weak, and they don't focus on spears in pre-training. Pre-training is mostly about the basics: agility, speed, stealth, hunting, hand-to-hand combat, swords, and a little bit of knives. While the trainer goes over the correct form with them, I go off to the farthest target with three long spears. I place them on the rack and crack my knuckles. I can do this.

I mime throwing a spear a few times with an empty hand to get used to the feeling, and then grab one of them in my right hand. I was left handed when I was little, but my trainers broke that habit quickly. They like everything and everyone to be uniform. I find that it's an advantage, since I'm naturally good at things on the left side, but am forced to practice things on the right. The other trainees struggle with their left because it feels unnatural.

When I throw the spear, it lands near the center, but at an angle. I groan and turn away. It's so frustrating because I know exactly what I need to do, but I just can't get my body to do it. It's like being able to read words but unable to make any sense out of them. I kick the rack and the remaining two spears rattle.

"You know, you're never going to get any better if you just keep hitting things." I turn to the voice, and I see Cato standing there, looking amused. I look around, but he's not surrounded by his usual gang of boys.

"This sport is stupid. Why throw a spear when you can throw a knife?" I mutter. Cato's mouth twitches, as if he's going to smile, but he only walks over to my spear rack and grabs one of the spears. He tosses it lightly a few times, getting his grip more comfortable on it.

"If I recall correctly," he says, walking in front of me, "Brutus killed his last three opponents by spear back in the 68th Games." He leans forward and throws the spear. It flies streamlined through the air, impaling dead center on the target. It doesn't even quiver. He turns around and looks at me.

"Shut up," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. I snatch the last spear off of the rack and push past Cato to stand in front of the target. I settle my stance, pull the spear back, and—

"Don't lean into it so much." I scowl, turning to Cato where he stands several feet from me.

"What?" I set the blunt end of the spear back on the ground. Cato sighs exasperatedly and walks over to stand behind me.

"You're leaning into it too much. Do it again." I prepare to throw again, and Cato readjusts my hand, arm, and shoulder so that my upper body is less twisted. He's holding the wrist of my hand that grasps the spear, my back and shoulders pressed against his chest. The crown of my head doesn't even reach the base of his neck.

"Now when you _throw_," he says this as he pushes my arm forward slowly like I'm throwing the spear, "don't throw your body weight around as well. Not that there's much of it." I ignore the jibe against my size even though I can tell he's smiling. He releases my hand and takes a step back. I hold the position for a moment after he leaves and then throw the spear, trying to do exactly what Cato did when he helped me throw. I watch as it hits the target a hair's width from the center. It's not shaking, and it's exactly parallel to the ground.

My eyebrows lift. I look behind me and Cato's standing there with a satisfied grin on his face, his arms crossed against his chest. I scowl again at him but I'm pretty sure the effect is lost because I'm trying not to smile at the same time. That's one of the best spear throws I've ever had.

"See, Clove? Spears aren't that bad." I shrug, but I'm still smiling.

"So why are you here, anyway?" I ask, crossing my arms like Cato and facing him. He looks like he's suppressing a smile. During assigned training, Cato is almost always at the hand-to-hand or close combat weapons station. He doesn't need to work on anything because he's naturally expert at everything. Everyone knows that hand-to-hand and close combat is what will help him win the Games, so the trainers let him work on that as much as possible.

"I was assigned here, of course." That's surprising. During assigned training, when I'm at spears, I'm usually the only one that's been here for more than three years.

"I can't imagine why," I say. Cato just shrugs and smiles knowingly.

"Neither can I," he says, but it's not too convincing. I cock my head and stare at him, wondering what he's not telling me, but I let it go.

"Let's throw some more spears." Cato walks forward to the target and picks up the three spears, bringing them back and handing one to me.

For the rest of morning training, almost three hours, Cato and I throw spears. Or rather, Cato helps me throw spears. He's actually a great teacher and I can see consistent improvements in just that short time. It's most definitely the hardest I've ever tried at spears. I still don't like spears (I doubt I ever will), but with Cato's promise to help me again I feel less hostile towards the thought of them.

I'm a little tentative talking to Cato, since we've technically only just met, but I have an easier time than I would have thought. He teases me a little when I mess up, but for the most part his criticism is constructive and he's friendly.

"See you this afternoon, Clove," he says as we put the spears back when it's time to go to school.

"Bye," I say a little shyly before I walk to the locker room. Some people look questioningly at Cato and me as we walk. He's not known to really interact with anyone outside his little group, and certainly not a small, middle-level girl like myself. Nobody asks me anything, and I don't offer anything.

I change quickly, bundling my training clothes in my bag and putting it back on my little spot on the bench. I have another, fresh pair for afternoon training. When I walk out in regular school clothes with my backpack tossed over my shoulder, kids and teenagers are streaming from the changing rooms and into the lobby to head off to school. Almost all of us are turning to the left once we're on the street, where the Middle and Upper school are a few blocks down. Only five continue on straight to the Elementary school. They are the early starters, like I was, ones that skipped pre-training. The schools that we go to are only three out of countless in District 2, but all training kids live here regardless. If you test into training, your family moves to this section of District 2 to receive training. Thankfully, my family was already located here. My parents fully expected whatever child they had to be selected for training, so they figured they may as well live here anyway.

School is uneventful, boring as always. Most of the stuff I pick up quickly and have to wait while we review. I sit with a few girls at lunch that I'm on friendly terms with, but I don't really talk to them. Like always, I'm eternally grateful that I'm in training since it means I don't have to spend as much time here. We have to watch a little bit of the Victory Tour during fifth period and the students are all cheering and shouting, still high off of our recent Victory. I don't yell along with the rest of them. I've known this year's victor, Castor, long enough that I know he's the maniacal killer type. In training this year, he broke another boy's arm right before the reaping, because they were the final two competitors for the District 2 male's spot in the Games.

When school is over, I leave right away to get to training. There's no point in wasting time at the school, and the sooner I get to training, the sooner I can get going in the center. I don't know what type of practice there is today—we never find out in advance—but I'm kind of hoping it's assigned. It's weird, since I usually hate it, but I feel like something clicked today with the spear throwing.

When I'm back at the training center, the trainers have cleared away most of the usual equipment from the room, and I groan inwardly. Obstacle Day. Crap.

It's not that I'm _bad_ at obstacle day, it's that I totally forgot about it with everything that happened last night and today, so I'm totally unprepared. I rummage in my pack, hoping to find my log and anklet, but even as I search I know that there's no way they're in there. How could I have been so stupid? They're both in the top drawer of my nightstand, carefully locked away so that I can be certain they're there on the tenth day of every month. I must have forgotten to grab them this morning, and if Aaron reminded us in the morning session (which I highly doubt he did) I wasn't paying attention.

I check the clock, and despite the fact that I'm early, there isn't enough time to go back to the house and get them. I'd be late, and tardiness isn't tolerated at the training center. Although which was worse? Being unprepared or being late? I consider this for a minute before making a mad dash back to the main doors, weaving between the incoming people and trying to get out of there. I'll just make up some excuse when I return, and I'll still get in huge trouble, but it won't be as bad as not having the log and the anklet.

Obstacle Day is something of a tradition at the training center, halfway between a hellish exercise and a highly competitive game. There is no regular training for the whole afternoon session; instead the trainers design and construct an obstacle course that occupies most of the main room. There can be anything from climbing to dodging to having to fight your way past the trainers with a sword. No one ever knows what's planned, and it's changed every month. As we go through the course, we're evaluated, timed, and overall scored on each section, and then on the course as a whole. It's hard, it's painful, it's stressful, but it's probably the most fun thing I've ever done. There's such an adrenaline rush from the actual things you're doing, and from the competitive aspect of it. I don't know any training kid who doesn't love swinging from a rope thirty feet in the air and trying to beat out the clock and your fellow training members.

Anyway, the only thing _we_ need to do to prepare for it is bring two things with us on Obstacle Day. A log where we keep track of our scores and times (there's a complex system), and an anklet that measures our heart rate and also serves as a backup timer. I'm not exactly sure _why_ we have it, but I suspect the trainers want to see how exerting and/or nervous we are as we're doing specific things. The trainers never really told us, and we don't really speak unless spoken to with them.

I cut through the people and am back onto the street, where there's still a steady flow of people coming in from the Middle and Upper schools. I don't look at them and instead start sprinting down the road, in the direction of my house. I'll be tired out and it'll probably show in my scores, but I have to hurry. The later you are, the more severe the consequences.

I'm so focused on running that I don't here the footsteps behind me, and only look back when I feel a hand roughly grab my shoulder. A lifetime of training makes me instinctively turn around and punch. But what can only be a lifetime of training for the _other_ person makes their hand fly up and catch my fist before it even comes close to connecting with anything.

"I find this situation oddly familiar, don't you?" Cato muses, a small smile forming on his lips. I shrink back, not expecting it to be him.

"Let go of me," I say weakly. I'm not in the mood right now. I need to get the log and the anklet and then get the hell back to training. Cato just smiles.

"You know, training's that way," he says, pointing to the building I just left.

"Let _go_ of me!" I say, and since I know I won't be able to pry away from his grasp, I do the lowliest yet most effective thing I can think of. I bring my foot up—and my foot is in combat boots—and stomp down on his toes with all of the force I can muster.

He shouts, and jumps back. I run, still going in the direction that my house is in. A proud smile works its way onto my face despite my frustration. Nobody ever expects the toe-stomp. And _especially_ not from a training kid. They always are ready for a tackle or a punch, but almost never do they think you'll go for something as childish as that. It's highly effective and really easy, so I use it when I need to.

This time I can hear him following me. I curse under my breath. Why can't this boy leave me alone? Until last night we had never even looked at each other, and now he was popping up everywhere. He doesn't say anything or move to stop me again, just follows at a sprint towards my house. My mind flits between the thoughts of what he could be doing here and the ass-kicking I'll get—we'll _both_ get—when we get back to training.

I don't stop running when I reach my house and keep going up the front pathway and up the stairs to the front door. Frantically, I key in the eight-digit passcode and wait impatiently while the lock whirrs and finally pops open. I bolt in and up the stairs to the second floor, where my room is. Cato, damn him, is actually _following me upstairs_. Good god, what is the _matter_ with him? You don't just go into random girls' houses without their permission!

I don't want to waste the time to untie the key from the laces of my boot, so I just pull the shoe off and hold it to the top drawer of my nightstand and unlock it. I pull the drawer out and snatch up the little pamphlet-like thing and the black plastic anklet. I clip the anklet around my ankle and carefully slip the log into the inside pocket of my jacket. I shove the drawer closed and force the boot back on my foot.

"What are you doing?" I yell, starting to lose it when I turn to go and Cato's standing there in the doorway. I'm angry, I'm frustrated, and I don't want him to be here. A lot of crap has happened at training and at home the past few days and I've had enough of it.

He doesn't seem surprised by the fact that I'm yelling. What, does he _often_ end up at teenage girls' houses without any explanation? I feel my eyes start to burn and will myself not to cry. I recall what my teacher said once about how people crying are rarely upset, they're usually just frustrated. Frustrated is the only word to describe what I'm feeling right now.

I don't wait for Cato to answer and barrel past him, running down the stairs and fleeing back onto the street. I see that Cato, coming out after me, has at least had the decency to shut and lock the door behind him. God forbid my father coming home before me and seeing the door wide open to the street.

I keep up my sprint, feeling a little winded but not unable to keep going. I'm alright at running, but sprinting all the way from the training center and back is no easy task. I try to think of something believable-sounding for when I get back. If I let them know I initially forgot the supplies, that would be almost as bad as not having them in the first place, so the truth's out of the option. I could say that I had to take care of something at home before I got to training. Yes, that would work. The trainers know better than to pry into our home lives, so I won't need to offer up specifics. I'll still get in trouble, but they won't find out about the log and anklet.

I pull up in front of the silvery doors of the training center, shoving them open and stopping to catch my breath in the receiving area/lobby-type room. It's better not to seem like I was running when I walk in. It won't be as suspicious. Unfortunately, stopping also lets Cato catch up with me. He walks in and stands slightly behind me, not even sounding out of breath. When I finally brace myself and go through the doors to the main training room, he follows only a step or two behind me.

As soon as I walk in, it's as if I've fired a gunshot. Every head turns in my direction and the room is deadly silent, except for the faint sound of whoever's doing the course now. I stand for a moment, not sure where I should go. The locker rooms? Straight to Aaron's side? He ends up making the decision for me by slowly making his way through the crowd and standing before me.

"Why are you late, Woodward?" His clipped words are soft and filled with poison. There's no correct answer to this. No matter what I say, I'll still get into an unbelievable amount of trouble. The room's quiet as everyone looks to me for an answer.

"Uh…" I begin, but am cut off by a voice from behind me.

"Sir, she was with me," All heads turn, including Aaron's. Cato stands there. Aaron looks surprised, as if he didn't notice him standing there a second before. Apparently he's so blinded by his hatred for me that he can't see what's four feet in front of him. Cato continues.

"I had to talk to her, and show her something." With this he gives a knowing look at Aaron, as if there's something between them that nobody else knows about. Aaron looks confused for a moment before understanding dawns on his face. He smirks, and he gives me a condescending look. I'm so lost, but I don't dare contradict anything that was just said. I merely stand there and try to look innocent or something.

"Very well. Thank you, Cato. You may change now." He nods at Cato and Cato nods back, before turning and going to the boys' locker room. He doesn't look at me or acknowledge me in any way. Aaron turns to me.

"Woodward, you're excused. Be changed and ready in five minutes." I nod my head furiously and mutter a "Yes, sir", darting to the girls' dressing room. Apparently Cato is so well favored at the training center that he can't even get into trouble for being late. His excuse was weird and cryptic, and I can't make any sense of it. My mind is working as I pull my training clothes from my bag and change.

In the course of one day, I've tried to punch Cato, stomped on his foot, screamed at him several times, shoved him, and ignored him. Yet when it won't affect him in any way, he still lies and saves me. It doesn't make any sense. We're not even friends.

Aaron's timing me, though, so I tell myself I'll ponder it later and dash back to the main training room, joining my section and getting ready to do the course.

* * *

**Hi everybody, sorry for the wait. Just letting everyone know this story is also on my _Tumblr_, at . The story will be updated there was well! Reviews, comments, criticisms, and ideas welcome as always! **


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